Opinion Scenes from a theatre

My first brush,or should I say brushes,with Hindi cinema came in small dusty single screens in small dusty towns in UP. They had names like Bhagwan Talkies and Heer Palace. They all,barring minor structural differences,looked,felt,and smelt the same. Lower stall seats,mostly torn. Upper stalls,only slightly better. Balcony rows,air-cooled,the target. Fetid odours overlaid with headachy strong “ittar”,sprayed at the will of the manager,who would lord it in his tiny office,in cahoots with the black-marketeers,making money off Amitabh as he roared and sprang.

I didn’t know it then,but the sporadic movie-going of my childhood had already laid its mark on me,as I navigated baking summer afternoons with a never-ending array of books. But I only got to know how badly I was smitten when I reached Delhi University and instantly gravitated towards the tutors who thought cinema was the best education. An exciting film club beckoned,I signed up,and I was lost. Those who remember “Celluloid”,and I am still in touch with so many still,will recall the complete abandonment of self to the images on makeshift screens,bad projection,crackly sound. Rickety DTC buses. Khadi kurtas. Blue jeans. And Rainer Werner Fassbinder. And a whole bunch of other masterpieces,the details of which got mysteriously telegraphed with lightning speed,in the days of hard-to-get landlines. We streamed in,from wherever we happened to be,cutting classes,lying to hawk-eyed hostel wardens. It was a time.

And then,suddenly,Shakuntalam. It was like an extension of the cosy film club we’d left behind in college. For impoverished journalists,the discovery of an auditorium in central Delhi,within shouting distance of most newspaper offices,was manna. Autos were dear,buses unreliable. What’s three kilometres? I walked to Shakuntalam. So did many of my compatriots. And so did,we discovered,many of the others who turned up,every day. Some to snooze away the Delhi heat and the cold,both equally bitter. But the others to soak it all in. At two and three rupees,and later five,this was movie-going made democratic. And not just any old movie. But the avant garde European masters,the Japanese auteurs,the Hollywood noir meisters. Godard,Chabrol. Antonioni. Fabri. Bergman. Ozu. Kurosawa. It was,literally,a film school: now,after all my years of tramping around film festivals,I know it was the kind of splendid programming only the best fests exhibit. And this in a “semi-sarkari” space,which the Delhi government had earmarked for large exhibitions,with a little bit of state-sponsored culture on the side. It was nothing short of jaw dropping.

Looking back,I wonder if I would be where I am without my Shakuntalam period. On balance,I think I would. Because by then I was already hooked,and I would have found another avenue. But maybe I would have been poorer in the knowledge I gathered,just like that,when movie-going wasn’t work. It was an easy way of spending time,of fitting in layers,of learning how to see.

Yesterday,I went on a sad pilgrimage. To say goodbye to a place I hadn’t been to in years,but a place I had never lost sight of. The “karamcharis” sitting around in the forlorn foyer tell me the tickets have been Rs 80 and Rs 100 for a while now: nothing is inflation-proof,but still so much better than those multiplex monstrosities at double the price and more. A show is on. Agent Vinod. It’s been a long time since it showed anything other than Bollywood blockbusters. “Woh angrezi picture jab chalti thi,unko toh bahot time ho gaya,” says the man behind the counter,before dispensing guava juice to the couple who’ve stepped out just before the interval.

I step in,just for old times’ sake. And everything comes rushing back. There,in that middle row,was my favourite seat. Ever since,I’ve always asked to be seated in “centre,side”. How many hours I spent in there,I’ve lost count. But what I saw there grew me up. And gave me so many of my movie memories.

shubhra.gupta@expressindia.com